By ASCEM Noone and AdmiralTAG

The idea terrified Jean-Luc the moment he thought of it, but it also made such perfect sense that he knew he had to try.  Several months ago, with a decided lack of fanfare, he'd begun moving his things into Beverly Crusher's quarters.  He was extremely uncomfortable with the fact that everyone knew he had new living arrangements, but the games they played were so exciting that he wanted to be with her as much as possible.

Had it been discovered that he spent his evenings in a variety of little girls' costumes, he would have been mortified, and Beverly probably more so.  She'd been concerned enough that she devised a cover story for them--if by some mischance anyone saw him, he was to say he was helping her by modeling costumes for a play.  He was touched by her concern even as he acknowledged that Beverly had  become somewhat overbearing on his behalf.  It was ironic that theirs was considered among the more mundane of the Enterprise pairings when the truth of the matter was that behind closed doors he lived as a little girl and she lived as his doting mommy.

Judging from the way she cheerfully controlled his life, it became increasingly obvious that they would never have succeeded in a more egalitarian relationship.  Beverly coddled her little girl, even spoiled her, but at the same time she ruled absolutely.   Jean-Luc might have balked at her high-handedness except he was thriving under her maternal domination.

A plain old mostly-heterosexual male and an even more mundane female, their relationship raised few eyebrows.  Neither of them intended to ever tell the truth; that she dressed him in little girl's clothes; that every night she tucked a napkin under his chin and wouldn't let him leave the dinner table until he finished his vegetables; that she strapped on a dildo and fucked him with it while he moaned beneath her in wanton pleasure.  It had taken a very brief few weeks before Jean-Luc had gotten used to being her princess.  She lavished attention on him, caring for him with such unflagging devotion that sometimes it frightened him.  She obviously found a great deal of gratification from taking care of him, and occasionally he wondered if he was a substitute for some other daughter she'd wanted but couldn't have.

Still, he was very grateful for her constant tenderness.  He wanted to do something to show her how happy he was, but within the rigid parameters of their relationship there was no room for independent action on his part.  She'd become offended when he offered to pay for the dresses and toys she bought him with such profligacy.  He couldn't even do something as simple as setting the table because she didn't want him to hurt himself with knives and forks.

His mild frustration finally came to a head when Beverly had to deal with a virus that swept through the crew.  Most humans only displayed symptoms of mild nausea for two or three days, but a few were stricken with a wasting illness that melted the flesh from their bones and left them fatigued and  susceptible to secondary infections.  Beverly worked tirelessly to build up their strength and find an antidote, staggering home hours after her duty shift ended.

The first night Jean-Luc said nothing as he watched her drag herself around her quarters getting his dinner, bathing him and putting him to bed.  When she read him his bedtime story in a voice raw with fatigue, he could only lay tense and frustrated until she was finished and had tucked him in.

The next night, she came home to find that he'd disobeyed one of her rules, setting the table even though she'd told him to stay away from sharp things.  They'd worked out their relationship so that the minute either of them walked in the door they were in mother and child mode.  There was no  room for him to tell her he thought it only reasonable that he should take some responsibility
when she was pressed for time.  Beverly walked in to find her little girl nervously shifting from foot to foot.

"Look what she did!"  Beverly exclaimed delightedly.  She put her PADDs down and gave her child a big hug.

Jean-Luc relaxed, his face crinkling up in a happy smile.  "You told me not to touch sharp things," he murmured against her chest.

"And you were afraid I'd be angry?"

When he snuggled deeper against her, nodding, she held him tightly.  "I'm not angry.  You wanted to help mommy, didn't you?  You're such a darling girl."

That night, listening to her weary sigh as she lay on her couch and let the day's tension drain away, he conceived the idea that sometimes he should be mommy and she could be the little girl.  That way he could take care of her when she was tired, like she did him.  When she finally came to bed he  whispered his fantasy as she settled in and put her arms around him.
 
"You want to be mommy?"  He could tell from the sound of her voice that she wasn't pleased with this request.

"Just one time, please?"  He was afraid he'd angered her, and he knew that wheedling was the best way to get her to do what he wanted, so he pulled out all of his best tricks; pleading; tilting his head to one shoulder and letting his eyes work for him; letting his chin tremble a little when she still looked like she might say no.

Beverly finally smiled.  "Maybe one time."  She didn't sound very enthusiastic but now that Jean-Luc had gotten her permission he was determined to make this good for her.  He remembered how concerned he'd been that their strict adherence to their roles might eat into his effectiveness as an officer.  He discovered, in fact, that the opposite was true.  When he was with mommy, there was room for nothing but the peaceful ruminations of a happily occupied little girl.  She had no voice with which to say 'the coil emitters are defective and I damned well want to know why,' so she never said such things.  The grown man whose body she occupied discovered that the structured rest period allowed his mind to find creative solutions that otherwise eluded him.  Eventually he simply stopped thinking about work problems unless he was on duty.

Now he hoped to effect the same changes for his darling Beverly.  Small girl or grown man, he did not want to see her suffer if he could do something about it.  He set about, in his usual, methodical way, to study all he could of caregiving and appropriate parental behavior.  Beverly had years of experience raising Wesley, and was very comfortable with her identity as a mother.  Jean-Luc had avoided children most of his life, so he was particularly cautious about how he approached this.  Reading the literature, he was amazed at all the things she was doing right, just running on instinct.  His respect for her soared, and he was more determined than ever to be the best mommy a little girl could have.
 
He dithered for several days trying to decide whether he should create a very structured environment or a more relaxed one. Eventually he decided to imitate Beverly's combination of a stable routine with lots of room for improvisation.  One morning, after they were both in uniform, he resolutely informed her that tonight he was going to introduce her to someone new.  When she seemed as nervous as he was, he didn't know whether to be reassured or more worried than ever.

Jean-Luc spent the day in a haze of jittery anticipation.  Why was he doing this?  Why did he even want to play stupid games like this in the first place?  Was he so desperately lonely that this was the only way he could get a woman to invite him to her room? He almost sent a message to Beverly canceling the whole thing.  He almost went to her quarters and took all his things back to his assigned quarters.  He swore to himself that he would stop this.  Right now.

But that evening, panic not withstanding, he was waiting for her when she walked in.  She entered cautiously, as if she didn't know what to expect and therefore had to brace for anything.

"Good afternoon, Darling," he tried to make his smile as natural as he could.  "I'm glad you're finally home."

Beverly nodded and smiled back, looking timorous and slightly wary.

"I've fixed you dinner," he plowed on steadily.  "Are you hungry?"

He reached out to her and she came into his arms trustingly, as if she'd done this very thing a thousand times before.  Relieved at even this small sign of cooperation he led her to the table where he'd laid out a simple meal of Cornish pasties with a side salad of raddiccio in rosemary vinagrette.  Milk for her, tea for him.  She smiled up at him when he tucked the napkin under her chin, but then she tore into her food.  He felt a moment's pleasure that had nothing to do with how he was doing thus far (abysmally, he suspected) and everything to do with her appreciation of his cuisine.

After that he did everything too fast and the evening did not go as he wished.  He'd hoped to create a relaxed atmosphere for her, but as soon as they were finished eating he rushed to draw her bath.  He led her to the tub and was methodically stripping her when he got a sudden image of Beverly,  standing over him relaxed and smiling as she filled his tub with bubbles.

 'Slow down,' he warned himself.  'You want this evening to be perfect.'

But even after he added bubbles to the water and got a real smile from her, he still couldn't seem to simply let the evening flow.  He didn't think he'd be able to master the soothing patter that flowed from Beverly so trippingly, so they were silent through bathtime.  By the time he'd dried her off and put her in her nightgown and robe, he was on the verge of apologizing and calling the whole thing off.
 
And Beverly seemed to be getting quieter and more withdrawn. She wasn't meeting his eyes anymore.  Jean-Luc chased eye contact for a while then finally let her alone, feeling even more anxious than ever.

"Come sit with mommy."  He made the suggestion as a way of giving himself a time out.  He was trying to think of a way to indirectly ask her how he should proceed when she sat down next to him and laid her head against his shoulders.  He was feeling rather triumphant until she told him in the softest, most broken voice he'd ever heard that her real mommy died.

"Ohhhhh, I see!"  Of course!  She'd lost her parents at an early age.  Suddenly he felt his insides turn to jelly as he contemplated the enormity of the responsibility he'd taken on.
 
"My darling girl."  Now it was easy to see her as helpless; as vulnerable and in need of protection.  Now he understood her many directives to him to be safe--her insistence that he not touch things that might harm children.  More germane to his efforts this evening, this revelation gave him an insight into why this little girl was so withdrawn.
 
"You miss your mommy, don't you?"

Again the timorous nod.

"And you probably don't know what's going to happen and you're  very frightened."
 
There was no response this time.  There didn't need to be. Picard realized how self-centered he'd been all this time, thinking about his discomfort and not realizing that this had to be painful for her.  No wonder she'd been so hesitant.  When he put on a child's dress he wasn't reliving a troubled past, which was partially why he did it.  She, on the other hand, had a girlhood that had been difficult, and she couldn't help reacting to the memories of pain.
 
He turned to her and gathered her into his arms again, kissing her hair.  "You will be my special little Beverly from now on.  Would you like that?"
 
He waited for her small nod before continuing, "And we'll draw and paint and have games and sometimes we can have peppermint ice cream."
 
"I like peppermint."  Finally a smile.

Even though it was a bit of a ploy, he could have jumped for joy to have her respond positively.  Jean-Luc knew she liked peppermint ice cream which was why he'd mentioned it.  He wanted the impossible for her--a happiness no less complete than his own.
 
"Why don’t we have some ice cream now?" he suggested, trying to build on his one success.

"My mommy never let me have ice cream after my bath," she pouted.

He almost said something like, "Well, your mommy isn’t here now," but managed to stop himself in time, damning himself for stepping into this emotional minefield. Why couldn’t he have suggested playing at something easier and less complicated, like being her superior officer and late husband’s best friend or even being an omnipotent god? He sighed. "I’d bet she’d allow it, just this one time. It’s a special night, isn’t, now that we’ve found each other?"

She thought about it for a moment, her head tilted slightly. "Maybe." It was a start.

She hopped off the bed and rushed into the next room. He followed and saw her waiting at the replicator.

"Bevy?"

"Bev’ly," she answered, her child voice slurring the syllables.

"What?"

"Bev’ly. No one ever calls me anything but Bev’ly. I’m a big girl now."

He smiled at her burst of temper—it was better than her despondence. Temper he knew how to deal with.

He pushed the hair off her face. "Yes, you are a big girl now," he agreed. "But that doesn’t mean that you can’t have a special name, just between the two of us. A special name for my own special girl." Frankly, he needed some way of distancing this sad little girl in front of him from his fellow officer and from the woman who was his mommy. It would be too easy to let them bleed together, let the sadness in her which seeped into all her roles color his judgment, too. "May I call you Bevy?"

She shrugged. "If you want." She turned back to the replicator and picked up two dishes of ice cream.

He started to take the glasses out of her hands. "I would have gotten those, Bevy. You shouldn’t have. I’m taking care of you now."

She turned on him, feral. "No, you’re not. I take care of myself. I’m a big girl, I’m all alone, and I...take...care...of...MYSELF!"  She grabbed the ice cream glasses from his hands, and in their struggle for possession, the ice cream dropped, splattering all over them and the floor.

Wordlessly, Bevy stared at him, sobbed once, and ran from the room.

He found her scrunched in a corner of the bedroom, knees drawn up under her chest, her frame wracked with great heaving sobs, though her face was dry of tears.

He stood over her, watching, silent, uncertain. The parenting books had not covered this. Perhaps he should have started with the section on troubled teens, instead.

She looked up at him, craning her neck to see his face. "You’re going to punish me, aren’t you?" she snarled.

At first, that had been his plan—after all, this room was no stranger to the sight of a parent punishing her child, and he had to struggle to control his body’s reaction to the memory of Beverly’s punishments. But this was a very different little girl in front of him, and so he’d have to be a very different sort of mommy. Little Bevy had no love in her, no faith or trust, and the very basis of their games together had to be trust; he would have to set out to win her. Ironic, really. Jean-Luc Picard had never tried to win Beverly Crusher’s love, but as Mommy, he would have to work very hard to win over this lost little girl.

He crouched down to her level, watched her flinch away. "I’m not going to punish you, Bevy. It was an accident." He could see her relax, just a little bit. "Would you like to clean up?"

She nodded. He reached out a hand and smiled when she allowed him to help her up. In the bathroom, after she removed her own robe and nightgown, she even allowed him to swipe ineffectually at the peppermint mess on her face. When he tried to wipe behind her ears, he even imagined she gave a short giggle. When he gave up using the washcloth and playfully licked at her nose, raising his eyebrows and smirking his delight in the taste of ice cream, she did giggle, so he continued clowning for her until she gave up a little of her belligerence and indulged in a good laugh. It wasn’t the polite little giggles of her daytime self and it wasn’t the shy, sardonic chuckle of a few moments ago. It was a laugh, lighting her face, shaking her body. It was a sound he knew, having heard it far too many times when he had to be in the company of children. It was joy, however temporary.

She laughed until she cried. He almost backed away from her then, certain he had taken on far too much. Beverly was out of control, swinging from emotion to emotion, like a child and not the disciplined woman she was. Of course not, he realized. She was a child. He envied her the way she could so completely subsume herself in her role, be it as mommy or daughter—what she had to be, she was, with nothing held back, no rationalization.

One day he would learn that abandon, but not tonight. For now, he was tired. Being Bevy’s mother was exhausting, frustrating, and oddly compelling. They needed a break from the intensity, a chance to sort through things, each in his or her own mind. It was time for bed.

Bed...He sighed. There would be no perverse delights such as were had when he was the child; Bevy was far too fragile for that. But he was gaining her trust, he hoped, and might someday be able to fully take care of her and indulge her.

He held her in his arms and tried to sing her a lullaby, only to realize he didn’t know the words of any. He’d never really paid attention when his own mother sang to him, or even when Beverly did; all he listened to was the voice. In the hopes that would be true for Bevy, as well, he sang the only childhood song he did remember—Frere Jacques—over and over again, satisfied with himself when she released a contented sigh and snuggled into his chest.

"You don’t smell like my mommy," she complained.

"What did your mommy smell like?" he asked, encouraging her confession.

"Oranges," she said, "and roses."

He tightened his grip on her, burying his face in her hair, smelling the fragrance of roses and oranges he had come to associate with her. They fell asleep that way, her face nuzzling his chest, his chin resting on her head.

He was disconcerted when he awoke, feeling her hurting him. For an instant he thought he was again her bad little girl, and wondered what, if anything, he had done to deserve punishment, why she was kicking at him and pushing away from his embrace.

Then it came rushing back at him, and for the hundredth time that evening he wished he had left the counseling to Troi and take up with some less dangerous game, like undertaking extravehicular repairs without a spacesuit or questioning a Klingon’s parentage. But he was here, and motherhood, he’d read, wasn’t a responsibility which disappeared when it was inconvenient.

He shook her awake. "Bevy? Bevy? It’s all right. I’m here."

She held him tightly, as though he’d float away if she didn’t hold on.

"You had a nightmare. It’s all right now," he soothed. "Go back to sleep."

"Can’t," she murmured.

She had thrown her blanket off, and the sight of her rucked up nightgown reminded him of how he had conquered his own nightmares before he started sharing her bed. "Come here, Bevy. I’m going to show you how to make yourself feel better so that you can go back to sleep. Would you like that?"

She nodded.

"First let’s go wash your face, shall we?" He stood an held out his hand; Bevy took it and he pulled her to standing, helping her into the bathroom.

He started out washing her face with serious intent, and with as serious intent splashed warm water on the front of her gown. He pulled it up, off her body. "Why don’t we just do without it?" he suggested , and she agreed, willing to afford him a little bit of trust. He hoped she’d have no reason to regret it.

Back in the bedroom, he sat cross-legged on the bed, urging her to lay her head in his lap. When she had settled, he brushed her hair back over his knee, murmuring, "beautiful, beautiful girl."

She stared up at him. "No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are," he reassured her. "My beautiful Bevy."

She shook her head, and he laid his fingers across her mouth to silence her protests. "Let me show you," he offered.

He took her hand and glided it over her cheekbones, her full mouth, the slope of her neck. "Do you feel how beautiful you are?" he asked, and took her silence as consent. He ran her hand between her breasts and over one, rubbing her fingertips over an erect nipple. "Such a beautiful big girl."

She moaned something which could have been pleasure, could have been disagreement. He silenced her by running her hand over her stomach and below, to the curls between her thighs. "Feel how beautiful you are, Bevy."

He leaned over her, distracting her gaze while he rubbed her fingers over her clit. She let out a small, shocked gasp which he stifled by kissing her, letting her lips go only when he felt her hips buck beneath their intertwined fingers. "Beautiful," he whispered.

"Beautiful," she answered.

He tried not to get distracted by the way her head moved back and forth as their hands rubbed her, bringing her to orgasm. He would not show less self-control than Beverly ever had when she was the adult. But the power he had over this vulnerable little girl, the way he could make her forget her sorrows and arch beneath his touch, was powerful. He hadn’t felt a rush like this since he had been a small boy, being felt up by his first girlfriend. He hadn’t cum from such distant contact in years, and he felt vaguely ashamed of using Bevy’s pleasure for his own. But then, didn’t all the books say that parents often derive their pleasure vicariously through their children?

The girl slid off his lap and curled on her side. Was she withdrawing? What should he do? This being a parent was so much more complicated than it appeared. He put an arm across her waist, and she snuggled back against him. He was amused to see that she had a finger, wet with her own fluids, tucked into the corner of her mouth.

"Good night, Mommy."

He kissed her hair. "Good night, Bevy."

In the morning, they split the breakfast chores, the young lady still insisting on her self-sufficiency.  He was glad the night was over, glad he could make his little girl happy, but terrified of the responsibility. He had no idea what the future would hold, or if they would ever repeat the past night.

Before they left their quarters, Bevy turned toward him, her eyes large and solemn. "Mommy?"

He had to touch her again, just once, this beautiful, fragile glass creature, his little girl who was trying so hard to be a woman. "Yes, Bevy?"

"Will I ever see you again?"

Would she? He hadn’t been sure, not until now, but he couldn’t disappoint her, couldn’t be yet another person who let this girl down. "Of course, baby."

"When?"

"Whenever you need me, Bevy."

"How will you know?" she demanded.

He folded her in his arms, pressed her head to his bosom. "I’m your mommy. I’ll always know."

He hoped that was a promise he could keep.

 To say he was relieved to walk into Beverly's quarters that night and find one of his frocks laid out for him was to understate things considerably.  Jean-Luc let mommy dress him with renewed gratitude and pleasure, feeling as if he fully deserved to sink into the role of baby after his exhausting turn as mommy.  He'd spent the whole day in a mild state of shock, reviewing their evening together and trying to convince himself that he really could manage to do it again.

Tonight he paid careful attention to their interactions, watching Beverly as she got his food, asked him what story he wanted to hear, rubbed his crotch through his white cotton panties.  He watched himself sitting passively, letting her touch him as his breathing got heavier, and he knew there wasn't much from their encounters he could bring to bear on his relationship with little Bevy.  He was a happy little girl, and she, quite obviously, was not.

Comparing them, he felt very sorry for the child he'd just met, and very apprehensive.  How was he going to know when she needed her mommy again?  And how would he know what to do?  He had
a suspicion that he could stay with her non-stop and it wouldn't be enough to fill the well of longing and need.  Such constant care would, however, wear him to the bone if yesterday was any example
of what he would have to go through.  He couldn't imagine dealing with that prickly little girl on a daily basis.  Still, he was proud of the way she'd finally lowered her guard a little, and he wondered if he could get her to do it again.

He dithered for a week, trying to decide whether he should proceed with this, and if so, how.  Finally, he sneaked into her office and laid a little girl's hair ribbon across her chair.  When she came home that night she was wearing it.

"Here.  Let mommy help you with that."  He led her to a chair, sat her down and adjusted her ponytail which was hanging slightly askew.

"I can do my own hair."  Did her objection seem just a wee bit perfunctory?  He hoped so.  Perhaps it meant she wasn't feeling such a strong need to assert her independence this time.

"I know you can.  You do a very good job.  I just wanted to tighten it a little because we're going someplace special and I don't want it to come undone."
 
"What place?"

"You'll see.  It's a nice place.  Are you ready?"

"No."  She squirmed away from his clumsy ribbon-tying, slid out of her chair and hovered by the replicator.  "I want ice cream."
 
Well, Picard wasn't so stupid that he didn't know when he was being tested.  Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do about it. He couldn't send someone to fetch the child's parent and take the problem off his hands.  He tried distraction.

"Don't you want to come see where we're going?"

Bevy shook her head.

Next he tried a veiled threat.  "I don't want to leave you all alone while I have fun."

To no avail.  She stubbornly swung her head back and forth.

Now he switched to bribery.  "We can have ice cream *and* cake later."

That worked.  He thought he recognized a smirk, barely veiled, as she followed him to the door.  'She's manipulating me,' he realized.  He didn't know what to do about it except promise himself that it wouldn't happen again.

An hour later, when it happened again, he realized he might have a problem.

"Mommy, look!"

"I will, Sweetheart."  He did not stir, or even try to get up.  He'd taken her to one of the nature discovery programs in the holodeck and she obviously enjoyed it greatly.  He'd been beckoned over to look at plants, leaves, tracks, nests, flowers; everything held her interest and had to be shared with him and exclaimed over.  By now he was frankly tired of looking at things, and her excitability had lost the power to move him. He would look up soon, but he needed to vegetate for just a moment longer.

"No, look now!"  She insisted.

He turned, looked, then had to swallow his heart.  She had climbed a tree and was hanging upside down from one of the highest branches.
 
"Look at you," he exclaimed with false enthusiasm.  "You're up very high.  Now come down from there, Darling."

"I don't want to."

"I want you to.  It makes mommy frightened to see you up so high."

"*I'm* not frightened."  She started to swing.

'You little brat,' he thought with a tinge of admiration.  'You're doing that to torture me.'

"Bevy," he made his voice firm.  "Get down from there now."

"Okay."  And there was that smirk again.

Picard was amazed.  How could she zing him so effectively when she was only six?  Twice in an hour she'd gotten under his skin and made him react when he was trying to stay firmly in control.

'How does she do that,' he wondered, 'and why to me?' If it hadn't been so obvious that she wanted him to come back, he might have been annoyed enough to beg off after that afternoon.  After
all, he was a quiet little girl who read or played games.  Even though he and Bevy would only be together on weekends, she seemed to have a knack for wearing her mommy to a frazzle.  As time
passed, however, and to his great delight, he began to see glimpses of his bratty child in his CMO.  Lately, whenever Dr. Crusher heard something she didn't like, the defiance would rise up in her eyes
for a second and Jean-Luc would think, 'Look!  There's my Bevy.'

Caring for her became a habit long before he realized that love grew in the mundane details of their every-day life together. It took a little while, but he began to understand why motherhood could be so appealing.  He was proud of the fact that he was the universe's only expert on Bevy Crusher.  There was, along with the opportunity to love her unconditionally, a certain gratification in being the one she needed most.  She looked to him for approval and affection and happiness.  Even the little things she needed, food and warm nightgowns and menstrual tabs (which he inserted and removed, keeping careful track of her cycle so she wouldn't soil her clothes) and having her hair brushed; all of these he alone provided.  He knew special details about her.  For instance, she would eat any food if he colored it red--peas and carrots, lima beans, potatoes, milk...  He learned that if he gave her a snack of croissants with milk tea she became hyperactive.  Fed cheese, peanut butter or tuna sandwiches, she was much easier to handle. When he made this discovery Jean-Luc wanted to nominate himself
parent of the year; he was just that proud of his cleverness.

She was precociously verbal, and endlessly curious.  He had to steel himself against her 'why' questions because he hated it when he could only answer, 'I don't know.'.  It made him feel inadequate, but the plain fact was, sometimes she wanted answers he didn't have.  He could tell her why rocks fell down instead of up, but he didn't know why the rocks had hit her friend.
 
"And you know what?  If you get cut inside your elbow you have to fold your arm like this."  She demonstrated for him.

He frowned at her, wondering how much her difficult early years influenced her expectations of herself and others.  He was beginning to suspect that her insistence on doing things herself was her way of trying to control an unpredictable world.

"Nana says I can make myself useful," she informed him.

Picard felt sick.  Was that what had happened?  Had her acceptance been predicated on her usefulness?

"Did Nana tell you that good girls make themselves useful?"

At her expected nod, he nodded back.  Eternally sensitive to criticism, she was watching him warily for whatever he would say next.  "She was right," he offered, "but good girls do lots of
things, don't they?"

She thought about that one.  "Yes."

He wondered if she was only agreeing with him to please him. Well, he didn't know what to do about that, so he soldiered on. "Can you tell me what other things good girls do?"
 
"Don't talk back?"

Gods, the life she must have had.  It sounded so romantic when she told him her grandmother used roots and herbs to heal people. Only now did he realize how direly needful they must have been for
her to have to turn to such primitive medicine.  And what had Beverly been doing all that time?  Being a good girl?  Ignoring her grief over her dead family so she could help her grandmother wrap
bandages?

Unexpectedly he found his eyes full of tears.  This, too, was part of the reason he could not abandon her--she needed him.

Fortunately, all of her life had not been about loss and pain.  To his mild surprise, he discovered that all little girls did not belong in dresses.  Bevy was very active.  She liked to play outdoors, and she had lots of stories about her adventures with wildlife which she cheerfully shared with him.

"Do you know what?"  They were in the holodeck adventure program again.  She was patting his leg to get his attention.  "Do you know what?  One time I saw a frog.  And it peed," she announced
triumphantly.

"It did?"  How enthralling.  "What did you do?"

"I showed Nana."

"Does Nana like frogs?"

"No, but when I picked it up the first time the ground was dry, but when I picked it up the second time the ground was wet."

"My goodness.  How clever of you to notice."  He put his padd down and looked at her.  Her eyes were sparkling.  She was grinning from ear to ear, and covered with dirty water from splashing in puddles.  "Look at you!  Computer, damp towels."

They materialized next to him and he began to wipe her down, shaking his head at the quantities of mud she'd accumulated.  "I think I'm going to call you 'mud puddle' from now on."
 
"No!"  She responded to his teasing as he'd hoped, laughing at his preposterous suggestion.  "My name is Bevy!"

"Bevy the mud puddle."

"No!  Bevy!"  She was far gone in giggles now, falling all over him helplessly.  Now he was muddy too, and beginning to be a bit aroused.  The child might only be six, but she was inside Beverly's willowy body, and her nipples were hard from the cold water.  Fortunately, she had a woman's responses and a child's unselfconscious yen to gratify them.  Sometimes, in bed, she would push her vulva against him, gently at first, then more insistently if he didn't pay attention.  Now she wasn't thinking about sex, but he might be able to convince her.
 
"Come here, you wild little thing.  Your teeth are chattering.  Lie next to mommy."

She snuggled next to him, sighed, and looked up at him guilelessly as his hand moved down between her legs.  She liked this.

Jean-Luc thanked God for interludes like those because it offset the not-so-pleasant days, of which there were many.  She was learning to trust him, which was good, but that also meant she pushed him and misplaced her unvented anger on him, which was not so good.

"My real mommy lets me stay up late."  Thus said when she did not want to go to sleep.
 
That stung, and he reacted.  "I'm your real mommy now!"
 
Then he was guilty because she was quiet and withdrawn again as he put her to bed.

He didn't mind it when she woke him in the middle of the night by crying and clutching at him in her sleep.  She couldn't help that, so he would simply wake her up, rub her back and try to coax her out of her fears.  What bothered him was the deliberately provocative behavior--the calculated efforts to make him lose control of himself.  He hated it, and finally he put his foot down and decided to be strict with her.  One night, when it was time to go to bed, she dawdled until the last possible minute, then jumped up and skipped towards the bedroom.
 
"Bevy,"  he called her back,  "pick up your crayons."

She looked up at him with a slyly calculating expression in her eyes.  She knew she was supposed to clean up; it was one of their rules.  "No. I want to go to bed."
 
"Bevy, I insist.  Come and pick up your crayons."

"I don't want to."

Picard suppressed a sigh.  He'd known it would come down to a battle of wills, and he wanted to avoid pitting himself against her, but he still needed to get her to obey him.
 
"Bevy, you are a very good girl, and good girls pick up their crayons.  Now come on.  I will help you."  He took her hand and pulled her back into the living area while she dragged along behind him reluctantly.  Sullenly, she snatched up three crayons and threw them at the crayon box.

Exasperation made Picard's fingers tighten around the crayons and paper.  He counted to three, but his voice was still sharp when he spoke to her.
 
"Bevy!  You are not behaving like a good girl.  Now pick them up nicely and put them in the box."

Her face turned down into an angry pout.  "No!"

"Bevy," he said warningly.

"No.  I hate you," she cried.  She ran into the bedroom and hid in her accustomed corner.

'Not this time,' Jean-Luc thought.  He ran after her, bodily pulled her to her feet, then shook his finger in her face.  "We'll have no more talk of hating, young lady.  Now you get in bed!"

She stared at him in shock, then her face crumpled.  She got in bed without a word, but her chin was trembling.  He could tell she was going to start crying.

Picard gave himself a time out and stalked into the living room where he could fume in peace.  Most of the crayons were still on the floor, and he snatched them up just as Beverly had done, angrily throwing them into the box as if her fit of temper were contagious.  His face was tight with  disapproval.  The child was a disappointment, really, a burden to be endured rather than a
companion who could be appreciated.  He'd done his best, but one had no choice but to wash one's hands of a child who wouldn't do what she was told.  Willful, disobedient, stubborn, unappreciative;
he couldn't abide the intractable little thing.
 
His thoughts steamed along those lines for several minutes until he realized that the words rang with eerie familiarity.  When he remembered where he'd heard them he stopped cold.  This was the
very same parental voice that made him feel shamed and unworthy when he'd been a child.

Picard dropped down onto the sofa and put his hands over his eyes.  It shocked him to find himself far gone in the puritanical judgmentalism to which his parents had subjected him.  How could he feel that way towards her?  She was only a little girl.  After all, he'd been at least partially to blame this time.  Her tantrum had felt like defiance, and from his point of view it was completely unwarranted.  So he'd raised the price of his approval.  It hadn't been enough that she pick up the crayons.  She had to do it nicely.
 
'And you hated that when your mother did it to you, didn't you?'  The thought was enough to make him want to wake Bevy and apologize.  He'd never been defiant enough to scream at his parents, though he wished he could have been.  He thought about Bevy's angry disobedience with a bit of admiration.  His plucky girl.
 
He sat on the sofa for a long time, thinking about nothing.  When he finally went to bed he tried to be quiet and not disturb her, but she heard him anyway.
 
"Are you mad at me?"  Her voice could be so soft and uncertain sometimes.

He turned and gathered her into his arms, brushing ineffectually at the tearstains on her cheeks.  "Now why would I be mad at you?"
 
"Because I threw crayons."

He couldn't say, 'Yes, I wanted to throttle you.'  "And?"

"And I was bad."

"What do you think we should do about that?"

She snuggled close to him, relieved that he wasn't angry.  "Don't throw crayons anymore?"

She obviously wanted reassurance, but exhaustion hit him the moment he lay down, and he didn't want to talk anymore.  "Good. Good girl.  Go to sleep."
 
When he woke up, she was gone, and he felt a guilty relief at not having to deal with her for a whole week.

****
There were times he thought he really could kill the little bitch. All these months, all the breakthroughs, and yet she could strip him of his authority and dignity with a simple sentence. If all children were like this, he decided, the human race would have died out within two generations.

He sighed. It really wasn’t that unreasonable a request for a girl to make. After all, they were seen together in public (since Bevy looked far more "acceptable" than did Beverly’s little girl) on the way to and from holodecks. Since she was often so prickly, there wasn’t much danger of her slipping and calling him "Mommy" or of showing any affection aside from the occasional grab of his arm, behavior the crew was used to seeing from their CMO. But this—this was outrageous. Impossible.

"I wanna see where you work, Mommy."

"Bevy, we’ve been over this before. You may not come to the bridge. Children do not belong there."

She pouted—she did that very well. And they both knew that, when he saw her lower lip stuck out like that, his first thought was how soft it would feel around him.

"You’ve let other kids up there."

Damn her for bringing their real lives into this. "Not for a very long time. And he was an extraordinary boy."

"I’m more ‘strordinary."

"Yes, you are." *Shut up, you little tease, before I lose my temper and punish you.*

"Then let me visit you at work. I’ll be good."

"It isn’t possible, and that’s that. No more discussion, Bevy. Now go get ready for bed."

She flounced toward the bedroom, calling over her shoulder. "Bet you just sit on your couch and play with yourself all day anyway, you old hag."

He balled his hands into fists, willing himself not to follow her and teach her what trouble that foul mouth was going to get her into some day.

She had gotten him to react again; she had won. This shouldn’t be a contest between them, this wasn’t a healthy mother-daughter relationship. Every time she tested him like this, she wanted something. *Think, woman,* he urged himself. *what does she want. Not the bridge, she knows that’s impossible. So what?* When he could reach no conclusions, he gave up and went to ask her.

She was in the tub, though he’d often told her that it was Mommy’s job to do that, and that he didn’t want her in the water if Mommy wasn’t there to supervise. For now, he let that go—he only had strength for one fight at a time. He stepped delicately, trying not to slip on the puddles she’d splashed out. "Bevy?"

"Hmm?"

She was doing it again, stretching her body in ways she knew he liked, letting the tips of her breasts emerge from the bubbles. He was not going to let her divert him though, at least not yet.

"You can’t come onto the bridge. You know that. And I know you know that. So what is it you really want?"

"To go on the bridge!"

"All right then, I think it’s time to stop playing this game." There—he’d done it. He’d gotten her scared, wondering whether he meant this identity game or some other. She’d comply, tell him the truth. He wasn’t proud of himself—a good mother should never mess with her daughter’s mind, scare her like that, but it worked. And he wasn’t the sort of mother to argue with success. "Now stop fibbing, young lady, and tell me what you really want."

"And then you’ll give it to me?"

"And then I’ll consider it." He put on his sternest look, hoping he’d convince her this was the best she could do.

She sighed. "I want a Starfleet Junior Scientist kit."

She’d been asking for this for weeks, and he’d been refusing her. The implements and chemicals in the kit were far too dangerous for a little girl to be playing with, especially a willful, disobedient little girl like Bevy. But compared with the prospect of letting her on the bridge...

Mommy sighed. "All right, Bevy—but I will lock it up when I’m not around, and if I ever, even once, find you misusing it, I’ll take it away."

She tried one last pout. "Everything gets taken away from me."

He wasn’t going to let him get to her this time, not when the sympathy plea was so far overdone. "Whether you keep it or lose it is entirely up to you. Now—are you going to thank Mommy?"

Bevy was very ingenious when she was grateful. Or, as now, when she wanted to cover up for her lying, deceitful, mischievous mind.

***

The next weekend was filled with emergencies, and neither of them had enough time to play; they were lucky to have enough energy to eat (although he had a sneaking suspicion that Beverly would not have, had he not set the food in front of her).

The week after it was the crew evaluations. He knew he should have done them during the week, but he was so enthralled by his mommy that he couldn’t skip a moment in her presence. Somehow she always managed to get her work done in time, or at least when he wasn’t with her, but he had postponed and postponed the review. Had he been absolutely honest, he might have thought he was avoiding the little girl.

An hour after his shift ended, Beverly came to fetch him.

"I’m sorry, Beverly, but I’m swamped. I’ll be home later, and if you’re still up..." He looked at her and realized she wasn’t in her Starfleet uniform. What she wore was standard Bevy—ponytail, sweater, slacks, boots. All a little rumpled, all in some disarray. She carried a large shoulder bag. "Beverly?" This had to be coincidence. Bevy knew the rules. He had made them quite clear.

"I missed you, Mommy."

He was proud that she trusted him enough to miss him, but what the devil was she doing here? There were few restrictions in their games, but she was the one who long ago set a red line between their private and public lives. "I know you did, Bevy, but you’re not allowed on the bridge. Go. I’ll be home as soon as I can."

She smiled at him, showing all her teeth. "OK." She flounced toward the door, her ponytail bobbing.

OK? OK? This was his wildcat daughter—she was agreeing to go home? No temper tantrums, no cursing, no vicious remarks? He might not have been a mother for long, but he knew when something was illogical.

"Where are you going, Bevy?"

"Home. To play."

He returned to his PADDs. "That’s good."

Bevy giggled. "That’s what he said, too."

She was almost out the door when he jumped up and dragged her back inside. "Who said?"

"Will."

"Will?" he repeated dully.

She swayed her shoulders as though she were a big girl. "Uh-huh. Will. He’s cute, don’t you think?"

He could feel his voice crack. Dear lord, he wasn’t ready for his girl to be going on dates. Then a more horrifying thought struck him. "Will...Riker?"

"I think so. He’s so big and strong."

"And the two of you are going to play together?"

"Uh-huh."

He wanted to sink into the ground in shame. He wanted to throttle her. It was all well and good to imagine the humiliation of having his bridge crew watch Mommy fuck him, but Beverly actually let Will Riker know about their games? Great. It would be all over the ship by now, and Starfleet would have every detail by dinnertime.

He pulled her down to sit next to him on the couch. "Bevy? This is very important. Did you tell Will Riker that you are my daughter?"

Her lower lip trembled. "You don’t want anyone to know? Don’t you love me? Aren’t you proud of me?" She started to get up, and he grabbed her, dragging her back down.

He tried to keep his voice level, panic-free. "Of course I’m proud of you, silly. I...This is all so new. I just want us to have this special secret, just a while longer."

"I’m good at keeping secrets," she boasted.

"So you’ll keep ours?" She nodded. "Promise?"

Wrong move—she began to pout again. "You don’t keep promises," she accused.

He furrowed his brows, wondering where he had slipped.

She indicated her shoulder bag.

"What do have in there?"

"It’s a Starfleet Junior Scientist kit. You promised."

He had, and he hadn’t gotten it for her. Then again, she hadn’t stayed off the bridge.

"Will Riker gave it to me. I said I wanted it, and he got it for me. He didn’t promise. He just got it."

His heart sank somewhere below his stomach. A quick check of requisitions did indeed show that Commander Riker had replicated a Starfleet Junior Scientist kit. "Bevy? That was very wicked of you. Good girls don’t go behind their mommy’s backs to get toys."

"I’m sorry, Mommy." She looked about as repentant as a Ferengi in a latinum stockpile.

"I’m going to have to punish you for this," he answered, his tone sad.

Bevy walked over to him and pushed back the desk chair into which he had dropped. She sank onto his lap and nuzzled at his neck. "No, you won’t. You’re a good mommy. You love me. Good mommies don’t punish their girls."

He tried to be stern, but it was difficult with her moving her bottom in his lap.

"You’ve been very bad, Bevy."

She slid off his lap, pulling his pants zipper down as she went. "But I’m going to be so good now, Mommy."

He tried to resist her; it was a typical Bevy game. Whenever she wasn’t getting her way or was afraid he’d discipline her or even leave, she’d try to seduce him. And, honestly, it didn’t take much—he knew this was wrong, that he shouldn’t let this happen until he’d learned to understand his wildfire child, but his body didn’t want to wait the century or two that would take. He tried to move away from those long fingers which seemed to know exactly how to touch him but gave up when she lowered her mouth into his lap.

Bevy had a child’s mind, but knew things no child should know.

He had worried about it, earlier on in their relationship. He’d tried to get Beverly Howard Crusher’s early medical records, but was denied access. He’d thought of asking one of the medical staff, but with what pretext? Finally, he had visited Dr. Crusher in her office.

"I’d like a copy of a crew member’s medical records."

"If I can without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I don’t think that’s a problem. I want records from about 45 years ago."

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Whose?"

"Yours."

"Why?"

He leaned in close to her so that no one passing by could hear. "Bevy..."

She smiled and he sat back up, sure she understood.

"Bevy? Jean-Luc, no one’s called me that in...oh, since I was a girl. Now why on earth would you need my medical records? Besides, there are none that old. They were all destroyed years ago." She didn’t mentioned that she’d been the one to destroy them during her stint as head of Starfleet Medical.

He’d gone away that day empty handed and amazed, again, at how completely separate she kept their private life and life outside her cabin, as though she had multiple personalities. He hadn’t been able to confirm his suspicions about her childhood, but he was almost sure. Bevy knew far too much for a girl her age, and he wasn’t the one who taught her.

Cool air around his cock brought him back to the present. "Wanna see my titties? Nana says I’m starting early." She didn’t wait for his answer. Before he could think of one, her top was off.

"Bevy, I think we need to talk."

She grabbed his hands and placed them on her breasts. "Don’t wanna talk. I wanna show you how good I am. I wanna be your good little girl."

"Bevy. Listen to me. Do you know what good little girls your age do?"

She nodded and then sucked him back into his mouth.

Dear god, it was worse than he thought. He was going to have to get her to talk, and it seemed as though there was only one way at this precocious Lolita.
 Picard was so concerned about the direction of their relationships that he cheated.  That following  week, when he normally would have been drawing or painting or building 3d puzzles, he moped around their cabin trying to decide out what he should do.  Mommy noticed at once and ran a tricorder over him several times, trying to figure out what the problem was.

She didn't find a thing wrong, and her increasingly frantic queries went unanswered.  Was she hurt?  Was she afraid?  Did somebody make her angry?  Was she sad?
 
There was nothing to say.  He could not convolute his various mental and emotional refuges enough to untangle his feelings and he would not have in any event.  His relationships with the various
females in his life were all discrete and distinct, and he had no option but to keep them that way, but that was not something a child was capable of articulating.
 
By the middle of the week mommy was beside herself.  When baby complained that she was tired and went to bed early for the third night in a row Beverly followed her into their bedroom and dosed
her with potions.  It had no effect except to ruffle her normally placid child into a fit of whining.  Beverly then tried to soothe her with a lullaby, a guaranteed sedative.  Usually her daughter would smile dreamily when she was sung to, but tonight she just looked sad.
 
Over several days Beverly tried offering baby's favorite foods, her favorite stories, and her favorite clothes.  Finally she replicated a dolly hoping the gift might cheer her up. It did not have the hoped-for effect.  The child named the doll Jolie and carried it everywhere.  Beverly thought nothing of it at first, but a week later she began to worry.  The little girl rocked the doll constantly, holding it and stroking its face and kissing it.  She didn't want to do anything else anymore except take care of Jolie.
 
"I'll always take care of you," she would whisper, "so you'll be a good girl."
 
She took it with her when she went to bed, waking in a panic to clutch at it in the middle of the night.  At bath time she had to have the doll within her range of vision or else she would start to cry.  Finally, Beverly tried to break her attachment to it by taking it away from her.  It was the worst of wrong  moves.  When she came home to find Jolie missing, the little girl burst into tears of grief and wouldn't be comforted.  Beverly tried to wait it out thinking that she could distract her with other toys and games, but the child curled up in a ball on the floor and sobbed brokenheartedly.
 
When she begged mommy to help her find Jolie, Beverly finally relented and gave the doll back to her.  She'd felt like the worst, most evil sadist in the universe listening to her little girl's desperate promise to be good if mommy would please, *please* help her.
 
'How could I have been so cruelly wrong?' She asked herself guiltily.  Much later, after many comforting cups of cocoa had been consumed, Beverly tried to apologize and explain her mistake.
 
"Mommies don't always make the right decisions, Sweetheart.  Sometimes we do things the best we can, but we don't do them right.  We're very sorry when we do things wrong.  Do you understand?"
 
She watched her daughter for a sign of comprehension, but the child simply curled more tightly around Jolie and didn't answer. There had been sedatives in the cocoa (else neither of them would
have fallen asleep that night), so except for the occasional shudder she was very still.
 
Beverly explained that she hadn't been trying to hurt her. "That's the last thing I would every want to do to you, Baby.  I never want you to feel the things I felt.  I want to protect you so no one ever hurts you."

"I love you, Mommy."  Her voice was slurred with the medicine, but not so much that Beverly couldn't make it out.
 
"Oh, baby,"  Beverly felt the tears flow, as relieved now as if she'd just been pardoned for a crime.  She bent over to bury her face next to her daughter's.  "I love you too.  I love you so much."

By now she was sobbing quietly.  She scooted down the bed in order to put her arms around her precious little love.  "I'm sorry about Jolie, so sorry...  I'll never do that again..."

*****
Picard was beginning to become more confused and frightened at the strange events taking place in his life.  Losing Jolie, even for the brief hour she'd been gone, had been unexpectedly painful. It shocked him that he should take a doll so seriously, but when he came home now, he immediately went to his drawer and checked to see that she was there.  Amazingly, he did it while he was still in
uniform.  Only after he'd found her could he relax and change into his evening persona.  He was out of control, and that didn't happen.  Not to him.
 
It was amazing how his life had become so abruptly crowded in the past few days—Mommy and Mommy and Bevy and Jolie.  There was one important name missing from the many females come so recently in his life.  The moment he thought it he decided it was stupid of him to be worried about a name for himself, nonetheless he couldn't let it rest.

A few days later, sitting on the floor with his head on Mommy's lap, he finally asked her what his name was.

"Megan."  She answered so readily that Megan knew Mommy had been wanting to tell her for a long time.

"Why didn't you tell me before now?"

"I was afraid you wouldn't like it."

"I like it.  I like to be Megan."

"Pretty Megan," Beverly crooned happily.  "My precious girl." She pronounced Megan's name with a voice full of love and adoration, and Jean-Luc was struck by the thought that Megan was as much her
doll as Jolie was his.

Megan quickly became Meg, then Meggie, cementing his vulnerability more solidly than he'd thought possible.  It was strange and frightening to be able to subsume Jean-Luc so completely, but it didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have.  Riker called him once for a minor emergency, and he'd been confused as to how to answer, looking to mommy for guidance.

Beverly took Jolie out of his arms, pulled his dress off his shoulders and handed him a bathrobe.  He'd spoken to Riker from within an illusion of captainly power and authority, and when his first officer hurriedly rang off, he simply sat there, waiting for mommy to take over again. Before she fixed his clothes she put Jolie in his arms.

They shared a smile, as if agreeing that Jolie was special.  Even Bevy liked her, demanding to take possession of her when she accidentally discovered her one day.  Picard panicked slightly. Instead of trying to teach her that she couldn't just take anything she saw, Picard replicated her another doll on the spot, carefully making sure it was much bigger and prettier than Jolie.  Bevy was delighted, and while she was occupied with her new doll he hid carefully Jolie on a high shelf.

His solution was only moderately successful--as with so much else, Bevy's doll only served to highlight Bevy's problems.  He had a chance to watch them interact as he sat on the sofa and watched her take her doll (rather originally named Dolly) on a tour of her new house.  Dolly lived under the table, and Bevy spent a happy hour arranging towels and sheets into walls and a door.  Every once in
a while she would emerge to grin at him as she crossed back and forth to the replicator, bringing milk and peanut butter cookies for "Dolly's lunch."

Picard nodded weakly at her housekeeping efforts.  He felt guilty for neglecting her, but he didn't have the will or the energy to do much else.  Fortunately, Dolly kept Bevy occupied for quite a while.  After she finished playing house with her new toy, she played Starship Captain with Dolly as her loyal crew.

"...and then Mommy says, 'Make it so, Number One.'  Then you say, 'Aye, Sir.'"

She scrunched up behind Dolly and said 'Aye, Sir,' in a tiny doll voice.
 
Picard smiled to himself.  It was truly endearing to hear her lower her voice and try to give orders in his polished British accent.  He decided he liked her better than Beverly's daughter. She was more adventuresome, more active and more assertive. Unfortunately, she was also a junior sociopath who he despaired of ever understanding.  Take now, for instance.  After hours of pleasant play, her voice was rising sharply for no reason whatsoever.  She was angry with Dolly for disobeying an order, and she was shaking her violently and telling her what a bad girl she was.

"You don't do anything right!  You disobey orders and you wasted replicator rations on peanut butter cookies," she harangued.  "Then when I arrange for Mr. Ord to come and visit you, you cried so much
he refused to pay me.  Now we don't have anything to eat and it's your fault."

Picard sat bolt upright.  He was about to correct her when her words sank into him.  Breathless, he listened to Bevy act out a scene from some nightmare she'd lived through.

"Now you have to say you're sorry," she was saying, "Then I say, 'Get out of my sight.'"

She held Dolly up right.  "I'm sorry," she wailed in Dolly's voice. "I didn't mean it."

Then Bevy dropped her doll and went back to sit in the 'Captain's chair'.  "Just get away from me," she snarled.  "You make me sick!"

She picked up Dolly and walked her into the bedroom while Picard stared after her, unable to believe
what he'd heard.

"Dolly's sleeping," she announced when she came back.

Picard pulled himself out of his shock and went in to check on Dolly, dreading what he would find.
He prepared himself for a representation of anything from rape to decapitation, but Dolly lay on the
pillow just like Bevy said.

He was weak with relief and exasperation.  'I can't believe I'm checking up on a doll,' he told himself. When she whined that she wanted to go to the holodeck he took her silently, feeling his loss of control grow exponentially.  This was all falling into place now, but how was he going to deal with what he now knew about his lunatic daughter?  And  dear gods, what was he going to do about Beverly?  She'd walked around with this burden all her life.  Had she ever gotten the help she needed?

 That night, after Bevy was asleep, her mommy did a little digging in Starfleet databases. Nothing. Beverly had said the records had been destroyed, and she was right; if anything remained of little Bevy Howard, it was far beyond the reach of any normal being. He briefly considered confiding in Data, but with what pretext? Troi might have been able to help him, but how could he explain to her the complicated lives lived in these quarters?

So, instead, he occupied the off hours in his ready room with reading on the subject of abused children. Shakespeare lay neglected. Piled up copies of archeological journals gathered dust. And the more he read, the more complicated everything seemed.

He had never asked for this. Never wanted the responsibility and guilt Beverly induced. Never had wanted it; never wanted to be in love with his best friend’s wife. Never wanted to love his best friend or an officer under his command. He had never asked her to indulge his fantasies. He had never, never, asked her to lay her troubled soul at his feet. All he had wanted to do was give her dinner, now and again, draw her a bath, yet he was being inextricably drawn into the whirlpool of her darkest nightmares.

Nightmares. Could that be all they were? He read the research. Read about the real memories and the effect they had, things he saw every weekend with Bevy. The too-early sophistication. The sexuality. The fear of the dark, of his weight above her. Even small things showed the childhood scars—her lack of fear at menstrual blood, fearing more that she might be punished for staining her clothing instead of terror at the sight of unstaunched blood.

And so many other things coincided with his reading—the way, in her daytime self, she claimed to have no clue to the reasons behind his curiosity about her childhood. The way she spoke so lovingly of her grandmother when, by all accounts, parts of her childhood were unfathomable tragedies. The way Beverly had gone slightly mad after losing Felisa Howard. Her sleepless nights, the fight she gave before surrendering her control and giving in to her body’s need for oblivion.

But his reading uncovered other options. Repressed memories, possibly, but he had also read about false memories. Could Beverly have, consciously or unconsciously, concocted a scheme to cover for her lifetime of failures? He had no evidence that the abuse he was supposing had ever taken place. Beverly never said anything, presumably not even to Troi. Even Bevy hadn’t said anything, only hinted in her play. If he brought the issue to the forefront, either persona could easily say, "where did you get that silly idea from?" and withdraw, making him look the fool.

The longer he thought of it, the more sense it made—Bevy was a manipulative little wench. It would be just like her to make up a fantasy world where, instead of having been adopted by this new, wonderful mommy, she was still the lost and lonely orphan, deserving of special privileges because of her unending sorrow. As for the things she knew which she oughtn’t to—the mind was six, but only if Beverly was really subsumed in her role of child. If this were some twisted game of Beverly’s to torment him, or even an unwitting plot of her mind to hurt herself, there would be no reason for the little girl not to know everything known to the middle aged woman.

It was so much easier to believe this was all an elaborate prank or fantasy world than to believe that Beverly, his friend, his lover, his mother, his everything, had gone through unspeakable horrors to become the woman he loved. It was so much easier to blame the child than to blame all the unknown someones who might have hurt her. He wasn’t the type to take the easy way out, but he wasn’t the type to punish himself unnecessarily, either.

Bevy must have noticed her Mommy’s change of heart, for she worked harder than ever to push every button, make Mommy lose control, pay her some mind. Mommy fed her and gave her crayons and paper, but Bevy wanted more. Bevy always wanted more.

Mommy sat on the couch, reading PADDs, or at least pretending to. Bevy abandoned her drawing and sat down in his lap. "I wanna kiss you."

"Not now, Bevy. Mommy’s busy."

"I wanna kiss you."

"No, Bevy."

The child thought a moment. "Want me to kiss you somewhere else?" She slid off his lap, landing between his legs, her hands running across his crotch. "A lollipop. A big lollipop. And Bevy likes lollies."

Jean-Luc thought he might throw up.

He had sent her off to a corner, then, almost scolding her for lying, for trying to seduce him, for making him lose his composure, for being a child caught in an adult world, and adult body. He wanted, really, to punish her for being Bevy, as so many others might already have. It would be so much easier to be what she expected from an adult instead of what he wanted to be for her, a safe haven. He had to take a time out before he gave in to the urge to scream, "All right, all right. That’s what you want from me? Then take it. You’re determined to be a nasty, filthy, abused little whore? Then so be it, because I don’t know what to do with you anymore."

Instead, he went over to his daughter and looked at her drawing. There he was, in all his glory, dressed in a sweater, his skirt pushed up around his hips, spread across the page. Underneath the prostrate figure he could see a few lines of long red hair and a small foot sticking out below his thighs. Bevy had drawn in a black background and one window in which a lone star shined. In the bottom corner of the page she had neatly printed "BEVY."

He had no idea what to say and refused to be manipulated, so he made some murmurs of "nice drawing" and the colors on the page before Bevy interrupted to ask for a glass of water and a bedtime story.

He sat her on the couch and drew her into his arms, a decision made. "Bevy, I’m going to have to go away for a while." He had to have some distance or he’d go mad. He wished it were any other night, and he the little girl. He was less interesting, true, but so much happier. He wished he could crawl into his mommy’s lap and have her fuck him until it was all better. He hated being the adult.

Bevy didn’t say much about his announcement, but she also didn’t beg her mommy to stay. It was only much later, the next day when Jean-Luc could no longer do anything about it, that he realized her only question was whether she could keep her replicator privileges.

He sank gratefully into his role as mommy’s girl that evening, but even the little girl she was couldn’t help noticing Mommy’s far away look and the odd tear.
 "Mommy why are you sad?"  Baby did not understand, and she groped for a way to make sense of her mother's unhappiness.

"Sometimes mommies are sad for no reason, Darling."  Beverly heard the confusion and uncertainty in her baby's voice and pulled herself together, dabbing at her eyes before turning to face her. Meggie was in her pastel pink dress with the beadwork around the collar and waist, and she looked darling, as usual. Beverly felt lust stab through her.  Well, why not?
 
She deflected her daughter's concern by reaching under her dress to rub the front of her panties.  Meggie heaved a deep, contented sigh and let herself go limp.  Beverly led her little girl to the bedroom and undressed her.  Then she strapped on baby's favorite dildo and stretched out next to her.

"What does baby want?"  She demanded.

"Please fuck me, Mommy.  I was good today."

Baby could say that with a fair degree of confidence since they were in Beverly's room.  When Mommy took them to his old quarters it was generally for punishment and pain, but here in the
rooms they shared she would usually allow as how Meggie'd been a good girl.
 
She stuck oiled fingers in his ass, preparing him.  He was very stretched these days, and she never had a problem getting in, but they both liked to prolong the experience, so she massaged him until he was moaning and clutching at her.

Beverly laughed with pleasure.  "Greedy baby."  She never tired of seeing him helpless and needy beneath her.  The power of it was better than the physical gratification, and she mainlined his abjectitude and hunger until he was roaring beneath her, crying, begging, fucking back with crazed intensity and finally coming so hard his body shook for several minutes afterwards.
 
She held him to her sweaty breast as they both gasped for air.  "Did you like that, Sweetheart?"
 
"Oh, Mommy, thank you.  Thank you so much."  He put his arms around her and hugged her to him.

Beverly sighed restlessly.  She usually loved the part that came after the orgasm.  After the intensity and passion, this was a sweet sharing that connected them with gentleness and affection. Tonight, however, it felt peculiar.  It was as if she didn't quite belong in her usual place.
 
'This is very odd,' Beverly thought.  She nestled in deeper, and Meggie responded by throwing a sweaty, sticky thigh over her legs.  Instead of making her feel loved and needed, however, baby's
wriggling to get closer panicked her slightly, as if her body were reacting to memories her mind could not access.  It didn't make sense, but it filled her with a sense of forboding, and made her feel like she wanted to escape.  She slipped out of bed to go stare out the living room window.
 
After a moment she heard Meggie come up behind her.  Beverly partially turned, acknowledging her daughter's presence, and Meggie laid her cheek against Mommy's shoulder.  It was another one of her
hug-me gestures, of which she had many.
 
Beverly turned and studied her girl.  True, the face had the craggy, masculine lines of a man well into middle age, but the expression, the vulnerability in the eyes... that was all her Meggie.

She put her arms around her daughter reassuringly, holding her close.
 
'I'm not being a good mother,' Beverly thought to herself, and the conclusion filled her with despair.  She worried over Meggie's well-being to the point of obsession, and yet jealousy drove her to commit ugly acts of possessiveness, like hiding Jolie.  At odd times during her workday she would sneak in time to browse catalogues for games and toys, but the reason she did it was that she wanted to keep her little girl happily distracted in their solitude.
 
'Don't be stupid,' she told herself.  'He doesn't want anyone to see us like this, and you know it.'
 
But that wasn't the reason she kept them isolated.  The fact was, she wanted Meggie all to herself.  She wanted to be the only one who got to play with her little girl, the only one who took care of her, the only one who got to see her.  And she wanted free reign to do the things that to this day made her feel a little guilty--a little ashamed of herself.
 
Not that that stopped her, of course.  Meggie was so pliant, so obedient, so helpless, that Beverly didn't even try to resist her desires anymore.  And why should she when Meggie wanted it--really wanted it--as much as she did?
 
'My little princess,' she gloated.  'Does it matter if it's right as long as we both want it?'
 
As if in answer, Meggie nudged Mommy again.  She wanted snuggles, their word for an extended hug.  Beverly shifted her body so they fit together more tightly and brought up a hand to stroke
Meggie's face.  It was truly a miracle that she had this child.  She would hold her, hide her, protect her from everything, and never let her go.
 
"Meggie, I love you so much."

"I love you, Mommy."

In the weeks after he told Bevy he was going away, Picard began to wonder if Beverly's increasing fragility was a figment of his guilty conscience.  At first there was nothing specific he could put his finger on.  She did not fade away from him as he'd faded away from Bevy.  If anything, she seemed even more conscientious than usual (if such a thing were possible).  There was something frantic about the way she wanted to please him, as if she needed Meggie's approval.
 
Had he been anyone but Meggie, he would have taken obscene advantage, but Meggie, who always got her needs met and then some, was very easy-going.  She responded to her mommy's agitation the
way she responded to everything that frightened her--she clung to mommy even more relentlessly than usual.  Any other parent might have called Meggie a pest, but Beverly welcomed her daughter's
every demand, request or suggestion.  Meggie was getting very spoiled.

But when he wasn't at home, Picard sometimes wondered why Beverly, the most indulgent of mommies generally, should take things to such an extreme.  If that had been the only thing that
had gone off-kilter he would have passed it off as a mood or phase, but eventually other things started to feel wrong.  Their sex life, which had always been terrific, was starting to get a little strange.
She'd always fucked him any time and any way she wanted to, and that  was fine with him.  He wanted to please her, so he always took it like a good girl should.  Lately, however, she often had an odd look in her eyes that made him feel a little wary.  When she draped him across her lap or made him kneel down for mommy, her expression was almost spiteful.
 
"Show Mommy what a good girl you are," she would say, and he would open his legs to her obediently.
 
"Yes," she would purr.  "Yes, look at Mommy's girl.  She wants Mommy to fuck her, doesn't she?"

There would be such an expression of gloating in her voice that he would open his eyes to see who was there besides the two of them.  It felt like she was actually talking to someone else, flaunting her hot little slut, or bragging to someone who didn't have access.  Picard told himself that this was impossible.  He trusted her sense of privacy, and he knew she had his best interests at heart, so he tried to ignore the feeling that something was badly wrong.
 
But when she started having nightmares, he could no longer explain away his sense of foreboding.  Her sleep patterns had never been easy, but now her dreams made her extremely agitated.  That was bad enough, but the most frightening part was, he was certain that he was the cause of her distress.  She woke him up by clutching at him and muttering 'mine, mine' under her breath.

He suspected he might be at fault.  He'd left Bevy to fend for herself, wherever she was, and perhaps Beverly thought he was losing interest in their relationship.  He determined to prove to her that she still had all his love and loyalty, but nothing Meggie did or said seemed to get through to her.

Finally, when she woke him a fourth time in almost as many nights, he made the decision to speak to her as himself, something he'd never had to do before.
 
"Beverly," he shook her gently, then more firmly.  "Wake up."

"Huh?"  She hadn't heard his use of her first name.  "What's the matter, Sweetheart, are you thirsty?"

She shifted preparatory to getting out of bed, but he held her arm in a tight grip.

"We need to talk."

At the expression of undisguised dread that crossed her face he knew his instincts had been correct.  He used his captainly skill of simply sitting still and letting a recalcitrant officer squirm under his gaze.  Finally, when she could no longer meet his eye, he took her chin in his fingers and tilted it up so that she was looking at him again.
 
"I want to know what's going on."  He was using his Captain Picard voice, wearing a resolute expression that was completely at odds with gentle Meggie's personality.
 
She gazed back at him with shame and guilt on her features, then her whole body slumped.
 
"Bevy raped Meggie."

Bevy.  His demon child come back to haunt him.  This was his fault.  If he'd paid more attention, if he hadn't abandoned her...

"Wait a minute.  How could she rape Meggie?  I'd know."

Her voice was becoming more subdued by the second.  "Q erased your memory."
 
"Q!  How could... Q knows what we do?"  This was orders of magnitude worse than the time she'd tried to drag Riker into their games.  He glared at her accusingly. "What have you done?"

She wilted under his gaze.  "*I* didn't do anything."  She protested stoutly.  "Q found out about Meggie and Bevy and he made a deal with me.  He could have me on the condition that he stayed
away from you."

His voice was icy.  "And you made *that* bargain with Q? Knowing how little he can be trusted?"
 
"I didn't have a choice!"  They'd pulled away from each other, and she wrapped her arms around her body protectively.  "He made...oh, I don't know how he did it, but he made actual girls, Bevy and
Meggie, and he put them together.  Meggie is you as we know her.  She's my darling girl.  Bevy..." she paused for a long time, her face turned down at a memory, and he had to prompt her to go on.
 
She heaved another sigh.  "You know that Bevy, uh, has some problems.  She sexually assaulted Meggie less than fifteen minutes after they met."
 
Jean-Luc's head was reeling, trying to take it all in.  "Why would Q even want to do this?"
 
Beverly scoffed at him.  "Why?  Because he's Q, that's why. Because he saw a place where he could stab at us and twist the knife, so he did it."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask him yourself."

This was getting uglier by the second.  Cursing inwardly, swearing that he'd never, ever let his life get entangled in another personal relationship again, wishing vainly that all this would turn out to be some holodeck fantasy turned sour and Q would not respond because he wasn't actually here, Jean-Luc called the entity's name.
 
"Here, mon Capitaine."  Q flashed into the room as if he'd been waiting for his cue to enter.

Jean-Luc dropped his head in his hands.  But only for a second.  "Q."  He would not lose his temper.  He would be the very soul of patience.  "Why have you seen fit to interfere in our relationship?"
 
Q turned to Beverly, whose face was now stark white.  "Tell him, Bevy."

"It turns out," she began, "that there are some missing memories that I'm in the process of recovering..."
 
"What your lady-love is so delicately not telling you," Q interrupted, "is that she's been a whore for nigh on fifty years.  She spent her childhood on Arvadda spreading her legs for anyone who had the money.  Isn't that right, Bevy?"

From some corner of her psyche Beverly found it in her to defy the insinuation and contempt in his tone.  "That's right.  And I'm not ashamed of it."
 
"You hear that?  She liked it."

"I never said that!" She shouted at Q.  "I said I'm not ashamed.  You're trying to make me embarrassed in front of Jean-Luc and it won't work."
 
"As it turns out, I don't have to," Q sniped.  He turned to Jean-Luc.  "Beverly was so ashamed of herself that she blocked the memories for years.  I had to help her find them again, but does
she show any gratitude?"
 
"Stop it, you two!"  Jean-Luc was staggered.  He didn't want to have to face this, but it was obvious he had to get the situation in hand or it would roll right over him.  He worked backwards from his current dilemma, trying to get the easy questions out of the way first.
 
"So Q's been harassing you.  And you've been..." he paused, remembering the subtle quality of braggadocio when she made love to him lately, "taunting him with me.  Haven't you?"
 
"I won't let him have you, Jean-Luc."

"Let's set that issue aside for the moment, Beverly."  He plowed on, recalling the literature he'd read.  "You'd lost memories of childhood trauma and Q, for purposes I can only assume are nefarious, is helping you recall them."

"You wound me, mon capitaine."  Q protested.

"He wants you," Beverly accused poisonously.

Exposed, Q tried to swagger his way out of it. "I'm trying to convince her that every baby needs a mommy *and* a daddy, but mean mommy always says no."
 
"I told him he could have me instead."

"Her being so good at whoring and all."

"Enough, Q!  Get out!"

"Well,"  the entity affected a concerned air.  "I can see you two have some things to discuss.  I'll just be running along. Ciao, Bello!"  He winked at Jean-Luc, sneered at Beverly, and flashed out.
 
Mommy and baby faced each other alone.
 
And then Jean-Luc swung his legs out of the bed, got up, and went to the dresser where he kept his things. Beverly stayed where she was, watching, waiting.  She watched as he out on his uniform, waited as he walked toward the bedroom door.

"I...I have to think about things, Beverly," he said by way of apology. "About us. About Q, and these games, and who I am, and who you are, and about...well, everything."

He expected Beverly to run after him, all enraged motherhood. He half-feared Bevy would emerge to try and seduce him back into her bed. The one thing he hadn’t expected to hear was the normal, lucid tones of his old friend, the clinically detached voice of his trusted chief medical officer. "I know who you are, Jean-Luc Picard."

He didn’t turn around. "I’m sure you do."

"You’re just another man, just like the men of Arvadda." Her voice, speaking in that monotone from her bed, stopped him halfway through the living room. "Q asked me if I did this with you...to you...because you were the first man with any authority over me whom I get to bend over and take it. And I thought, ‘oh, no, Jean-Luc isn’t like those men, all those men I can’t even remember. No, Jean-Luc’s different. Jean-Luc loves me, and I love him.’ I was such a fool. I never knew you at all."

He turned around, ready to run back to her and make her take it all back, make her admit that he wasn’t like those men, that did love her and she knew it, that he was just overwhelmed and confused. But her voice caught him again, held him in its dull web.

"And now you’re going, because I’m not pure enough for you anymore. You could never love Beverly Crusher, because she was the sainted widow woman. And Bevy—well, she was a dirty little tease. Mommy was so much easier to love because she made you love her. You had no choice. You never had to take the initiative. You never had to take the responsibility. And whatever happened, that idealized image in your mind remained pure. You didn’t want a woman, you wanted the Madonna."

He couldn’t see her from where he stood, but he knew she was waiting for a response. "According to Q, you’re no Madonna. Quite the opposite, in fact."

*Whore* The word reverberated around her quarters, unspoken, unacknowledged, and filling every silent space.

He could hear her bedcovers rustle while he stood there, trying to break himself free of her, trying to run for his life and sanity, waiting for her to join him and tear him into pieces as he probably deserved. He flinched when he heard her roar of anguish, heard her cry like a wounded animal.

"I was six years old! Six years old, Jean-Luc, and you blame me? For what? For peddling my flesh? I didn’t do that. For what? For lying under some old man while he did things that no one should do to a child? Is that what you blame me for? For being a victim?"

Jean-Luc hung his head in shame, for of course that’s what he had been doing. Blaming her for the past, for things over which she had no control.

Beverly couldn’t see him from where she sat on the bed, and so she took his silence as reproach. Of course he didn’t hold her responsible—he was far too good a man to blame her for her childhood. But for all those years after... "Or do you blame me for forgetting? For daring not to remind myself, over and over, that I was a victim? For not having nightmares, for not having any admirals lecture me about my past?"

He reached out to her, silently begging her to stop, but she could not see him. He couldn’t stop her; he hadn’t the right.

"You know all about being a victim, don’t you? You know all about the way a victim behaves. You know all about the remorse and the guilt. You know all about waking your friends up at night, and about carrying the scars. You know all about facing the angry stares and the accusations. Because you are the victim, aren’t you? No one could suffer as much as Jean-Luc Picard. Poor Jean-Luc, the son of parents who didn’t love him, not enough. And when that didn’t hurt so much, there was falling in love with your best friend’s wife. And losing your first ship. All those years, nursing every bit of abuse the universe could hurl at you. And then—oh, lucky , lucky you—the Borg. The big one. Winner of the Intergalactic Victim Sweepstakes. 39 ships, Jean-Luc. And how many dead? 11,000? You were in heaven—thought you could be a victim forever. Until the Cardassians, but you managed to get your 40 lashes from them, too, and then the Dominion. And now no one cares about your precious suffering, except now and again when you run into one of the people who got hurt so you could have your masochistic fling at being the universal whipping boy."

He wanted to stop her, but, fascinated and terrified, he had to listen, had to hear her pull away the layers of civilization one by one until she exposed his true self, until she exposed the fact that there was nothing to him but the facade.

"And then, when no one cared anymore about your suffering, you came to the only person left who could, who did. You came to me and asked me to make you a victim again, asked me to strip you of your rank and of your self, asked me to make you open yourself, asked me to make you let me into your life. And now, when you find your little game was more than you thought, that your little game of victim was the real thing, you’re running out."

He thought he heard the bed creak, thought she was taking slow steps toward him. He turned and walked to the door; he couldn’t look at her or speak.

"Welcome to the major leagues of victimization, Jean-Luc. If you can’t play with the big boys, take your toys and go home."

And he did just that.

They stayed out of each other’s way the next few days. Jean-Luc made certain Beverly was not home when he came to fetch his things and a few of Meggie’s. (Try as he might, the sight of Jolie sitting forlorn on Beverly’s nightstand was not one he could resist, and he bundled the precious baby doll into his dress uniform to hide it from the prying eyes of any who might pass him in the corridors.) Beverly sent Selar to the staff meetings. Both spent more time trying to avoid the well meant meddling of friends and colleagues than doing actual work, and neither really thought about their situation. What was there to think about? Jean-Luc had a decision to make and Beverly refused to make it for him.

But in the dark of night, clutching Jolie, he had time to think and found he could do little else. He could feel himself tightening up, feel the yearning for Beverly, for Mommy, could feel Meggie crying, somewhere inside himself, lonely and lost.

But Beverly had lied to him. And Mommy had someone new to play with—Q.

Night after night he tortured himself with those thoughts. Q had wanted him, she said, and she was protecting him. Didn’t she think he could protect himself? When she looked at him, did she no longer see Jean-Luc Picard? With the uniform off, would he always and forever be her Meggie? And Q. Q wanted him, she had said, but he seemed content enough to have Beverly. What were they doing, night after night? Was Q visiting her? Was Q doing to her all the things he wanted to do? The thought of Beverly and Q playing—oh, not mommy and baby, the thought of Q as a submissive little girl was absurd—mommy and daddy? Was he laying with her every night in what Jean-Luc had come to think of as his own bed? Was Q listening for that particular intake of breath Jean-Luc had come to know so well, the sign that Beverly was ready to gloriously lose control? Did Q enjoy all that? Was Beverly good for him? So much better than he would have been for Q?

Beverly had chosen Q, Jean-Luc decided each night before he drifted off to sleep. *Let the two monsters be happy together.*

Night after night he dreamed about them, of all the horrid, lewd, and oh so arousing things they must be doing behind his back. Night after night in his dreams they abandoned him, betrayed him, showed him they didn’t need him, that he was nothing. Beverly and Q...Q and Beverly. And then, one night, it wasn’t Beverly with Q, and it wasn’t even himself. The monster had Bevy in his clutches, and Jean-Luc’s maternal heart went out to the little girl. She was being made to preen and prattle for the entity, to debase herself , to vamp, to seduce this being who had no humanity, was only aroused by hatred and cruelty.

And then he was there, in his own dream, yelling at Q to let her go.

Q looked up from the things he was doing to that nubile young body, terrifying the imperturbable Starfleet captain by the lack of emotion in his face. This defilement of innocence wasn’t driven by lust, by hatred, or even by curiosity or need. It was business, and the devil had come to claim his due.

"Let go of her," Picard commanded.

"What’s the matter, mon capitaine? Miss your nightly rape? Perhaps I could oblige." Q watched as Jean-Luc began to back away and almost laughed when he saw the man’s face set into something between decision and defiance.

"Get away from Bevy."

"Oh, I see. You want her all for yourself. Of course, my dear captain—go right ahead, although I don’t think she’d mind an audience. If you can afford her, that is. Bevy may be a whore, but she isn’t cheap."

"Why are you doing this, Q?"

"Beverly and I have a deal. I stay away from you, and I take her instead." Casually, Q reached between the unresponsive little girl’s legs, fondling her roughly.

"Stop it, Q. The deal’s off. You wanted me? Take me. Just leave her alone."

"I’m sorry, Jean-Luc, but you and your little alter-ego just don’t interest me anymore."

"Q!" Jean-Luc stepped closer to the bed, close enough that Q could touch him if he wanted to. "I’ll do anything you want. Just leave that girl alone."

"Anything?"

Jean-Luc gulped. What was he letting himself in for? But a look at the lost little girl on the bed, not Beverly, his friend, his colleague, not the woman who had played pretend with him, but an actual little girl in whom he could see the seeds of the woman she’d become, looking at this girl he knew he couldn’t let one more man victimize her. "Yes, Q, anything."

Q was behind him then, whispering in his ear. "Strip. Get on the bed."

With trembling hands, Picard removed his uniform and slipped into the bed, next to the girl. Q sat down on the edge next to him.

Q lowered his face down toward Jean-Luc’s, whispering softly in his ear. "Take her."

"What?"

"Fuck her."

"Q!"

Q sat up again. "Surely you’ve visited whores a time or two, Picard? Why, there was that girl—Penny was it?--just before you lost heart, so to speak..."

"Q, she is a child."

"No. She is a whore. A body. You stick it in, get a little relief, pay her grandma and go home. No muss, no fuss, no need to move your clothes into her quarters."

"No, you’re wrong, Q. She is a person, a person who’s been terribly misused by others." He stared at Q, his eyes accusatory. "Still is being misused, I believe."

"Uh-huh," said Q, happily. "And she likes it, doesn’t she?" He turned to the girl for confirmation, but she didn’t respond.

He slapped her cheek to get her attention and she answered, mechanically, "Yeah."

"See, she likes it, the little slut."

"I’m not going to do this, Q."

Q sighed dramatically. "Then I’ll have to. A deal is a deal, you know." He climbed over Picard, and for the first time Jean-Luc really took a look at Q’s body. He shuddered—what he saw made Beverly’s worst dildos look benign. Surely it would rip that little girl apart. He had to do this, if only to spare her from Q. But a child...it was obvious that his body was not cooperating.

"Poor Jean-Luc, can’t get it up unless he’s getting it up the ass. Should I bring you something from your mommy’s bag of tricks? Isn’t it exciting enough to know you’re going to rape the girl who’ll grow into the woman who’ll rape you? I do like tidiness, I do." Still Jean-Luc’s body did not respond. "C’mon, Johnny-boy, if you aren’t man enough for the job, use your hands, your mouth, your imagination. I mean, even Bevy found a way to rape a little girl—it’s just returning the favor. She’s a whore, a rapist, a pedophile, and has been simply forever. You’d be doing the universe a favor. ‘Vengeance is mine’."

A flash of light, and Q was lying on Bevy’s other side. "In ten seconds, one of us is going to give her the fucking she’s been paid for. Your choice."

Jean-Luc considered. At least he could be gentle. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, touching her, recoiling when he brushed smooth flesh where he was used to Beverly’s dark red curls.

"Inside, Johnny." He could have sworn Q was breathing heavily. Dirty old voyeur.

Jean-Luc put two fingers in his mouth, hoping he could wet them sufficiently to keep from hurting her. "This might hurt a bit. I’m sorry," he whispered into the little ear, and began easing the fingers into her.

He thought he heard her scream, but realized it was only his own screams, and that he was safe in his own bed.

*It was just a dream. It was just a dream.* Why, then, were his fingers wet? Maybe it had been real, maybe not; with Q, it was never possible to tell.

What an idiot he had been. With Q, it was impossible to tell...so why had he believed everything Q had said? Because Beverly had? Well, she was never the most reliable indicator of reality, was she?

He didn’t go back to sleep. Given his dream, he wouldn’t want to, either.  Q could control his mind unknown while he was asleep, but awake Picard could usually tell the difference, at least in retrospect.

The easiest to confirm or deny would be recent history. Though he knew Beverly’s service record by heart, he went over it again with a fine toothed comb, looking for any complaints, any well-worded reprimands. Nothing. He looked for patterns—too many postings where she was around children, too few. Nothing. She served where she was sent, and the only post she had really lobbied for was her present one. Vanity persuaded Picard that had more to do with his presence on board than that of children (other than her own, of course).

He looked at evaluations of Wesley. Surely, if she were as bad as Q made out, Wesley would be a target, though he had never seen any signs. Neither, he learned, had anyone else in Starfleet. Even the dreaded psych exam, which plundered the subject’s greatest fears, was about Picard and Jack Crusher, with neither hide nor hair of the boy’s mother.

There was no evidence that Beverly Crusher was a pedophile, other than the games they played together (which were entirely mutual and for all their play were enacted by two adults). After more than two decades of Starfleet scrutiny, if there had been even a hint, he’d have found it. There wasn’t a breath of sexual scandal about Beverly, quite the opposite. The only mention of sex he’d found in any report were the recurring mentions that she seemed shy and awkward in dealing, off-duty, with male officers. It had never affected her work, and so had never hampered her career. Her standoffishness made her a favorite target of some of Starfleet’s more notorious lady killers (his own first officer included), but all had come away empty handed, earning the good doctor a reputation of ice princess. Nothing in Beverly’s files indicated that Q’s accusations—whore, rapist, pedophile—were true of her adult life.

Q was playing with him. Maybe Q had exaggerated, and he was just showing Beverly’s tendencies, held in check? Well, then, more power to Beverly for such control over herself. He had always envied Beverly’s self-control, anyway.

But surely Q hadn’t lied. He was many things—arrogant, swaggering, annoying, a charlatan—but Picard had never known him to lie. And while Beverly might be expected to have forgotten her childhood and therefore cling tenaciously to whatever exaggerations Q fed her, surely she would have protested falsehoods about events she did recall. Q had showed how she had destroyed her childhood records, and she hadn’t protested, so it must have been true.

As true as Bevy’s rape of Meggie, which had taken place only in Q’s fantasy world? What an idiot he had been.

It was simple enough to get at the truth, to find out that the nefarious situation Q had implied and he had believed was simple Starfleet mismanagement. The story of a group of medical histories being transported from one storage facility to another was easily reconstructed, as was the fact that they had come too close to a gravitational well during transmission from one relay station to the other. There were many signatures on the order to destroy the corrupt files, given their ultimate irrelevance due to age. If Beverly had conspired to destroy her file, buried in amongst dozens of others, she had far more resources than any mere doctor ought to command. It was coincidence, sheer and stupid coincidence, and Q had taken advantage yet again.

But why had Beverly let him? Because she was protecting her lover, her child. She loved him enough to besmirch her name, her reputation. He didn’t deserve her, and because he was so willing to believe the worst of her, Meggie would now be forever alone. Beverly had let him walk away, let him take Meggie from her, and Beverly hadn’t asked him to bring either back. He felt like crying, but he was Jean-Luc Picard—he would not cry.

Instead, he went into his bedroom to get dressed. Outside of this cabin he would find something to distract him, to remind him he didn’t need anyone, especially not her. He’d done well enough before she took him under her wing and into her bed. He’d do as well again as soon as he got over the loss. And Meggie would be locked away into the dark corner of his mind from which she’d sprung.

He grabbed Jolie from underneath his covers and took her over to the reprocessor, pushing the buttons which would make her disappear forever. At the last second, as the doll’s form began to shiver and dissolve, Meggie stuck her hand into the machine, heedless of the danger to herself, and pulled her baby out of harm’s way. "I'm sorry, Jolie, so sorry...  I'll never do that again..." she sobbed as she curled herself around the doll, lying there alone on her bedroom floor. She missed her mommy, missed her life, and almost destroyed her one talisman of the time before her life had gone inexplicably wrong.

Meggie sobbed on the floor for a good half hour before she realized she didn’t have to be alone. There was another person who was even more alone than she was, who could teach her how to survive this. With a kiss and promises to return, she tucked Jolie away for the day and dressed in jeans and a sweater, inconspicuous clothing for a little girl negotiating through the adult world outside. She hoped no one noticed her until she reached her destination, since her mommy had taught her never to talk to strangers. If anyone did stop her, she’d just have to ignore them; if mommy were proud enough of her, mommy might yet come find her again.

Meggie stood in front of the doors, anxious. She almost stuck her thumb in her mouth, but realized that would look babyish. The doors opened without her asking them to, sensing that she had once been a frequent visitor here.

There was no one in the main room, and Meggie moved toward the sleeping area. Things here looked so familiar, but there had been changes in the few days since she’d run away.

On the bed, a figure was huddled into the blankets, asleep. Meggie shook her shoulder, waited for her to look up, eyes foggy with sleep. "Bevy? Bevy? It’s Meggie. Wanna play a game?"

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